Sing a Song of Snowflakes
by Scribbler
Summary: [one shot] Rahne and Jamie have an early morning snow war.


**Disclaimer** – Well, ah do disclaim.

**A/N** – Christmas present for Skiltch. Yes, I'm your Secret Santa, babs. Draws a little from _Dominic Deegan: Oracle for Hire_. Well, the kitten's catchphrase, at any rate.

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**Sing a Song of Snowflakes**

© Scribbler, December 2004

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Times like this, she feels an indescribable urge to shout, "Death from above!" And she would this time, too, because it's not a mission, or a life-threatening situation, or even a mildly hazardous training session.

But it _is_ an ambush, and she fully intends to hit her target. Which means verbal warnings are a bit of a no-no.

Jamie barely has time to turn. Of course, that's to be expected. She stalked him on wolf paws, and the only people proven to hear her like that are Kurt and Logan. And even they'd have problems with three feet of deliciously muffling snow.

They go down in a tangle of arms, legs and brightly coloured scarves. She hadn't reckoned on a steep gradient hidden under the snow, but uses it to her advantage anyway. Ah, the wonders of crack-of-dawn training. Fumbling around an assault course while the birds wake up sharpens your reflexes some. Maybe Logan _does_ know what he's doing. Sometimes.

She sits up, ready to crow her victory, but Jamie just winks at her and fades away.

"Hey! No fair using clones!"

Since she's in human form and, okay, yelling, she doesn't hear the snowball until it hits her. And if you want to be really technical, she doesn't hear it then, either. She feels it first, smacking into and clogging an ear that should have been under a hat, except she already lost that somewhere up the slope. And she feels it slide past her collar and down her shirt. Her squeal doesn't quite cover up the thrower's laughter.

"What do you mean 'no fair'? You already broke the no-powers rule by going wolf on me."

"That's different."

"How?"

"I'm me. And you're you."

Jamie's head appears over a snow bank. "Well that's specific. Not."

Wiggling and batting her jacket to empty it of snow, Rahne mock-glares at him. He waves something red and yellow at her, a stark contrast to the dark green of his gloves.

"And give me my hat back!"

He tosses it to her. It's filled with snow.

"I could really grow to hate you, y'know."

He shakes his head. "Nope. You couldn't. I'm too sweet and adorable."

"Oh, really?" She arches an eyebrow. She really should get them plucked. Jubilee's always telling her to. She even offered to do it, once, and produced tweezers and a towel full of ice cubes to 'take the swelling down'. It had taken every piece of guile and cunning in Rahne to get away unscathed. She likes her eyebrows. It might be some kind of throwback, but she likes them untidy.

Jamie nods. He doesn't stand up, though. She hasn't bent down to make any fresh snowballs, but he's still less of a target behind the bank. He's remarkably more astute than people give him credit for.

"Yes," he says. "Everybody says so. I'm cute as a gumdrop."

"And conniving as a fox in a chicken coop."

He grins. "That, too."

Rahne snorts and puts her hat back on. It's cold and wet and makes her ears even redder. She grumbles all the way up the slope, shoving her hands in her pockets even though they're wet through and freezing.

"I thought Scots were supposed to like the cold," Jamie says when she's still a safe distance away.

"Chalk another one up for the stereotype brigade. I like it when I'm not in it."

"You want to call it a day?" He nods at the Institute, frosty and white like a birthday cake.

The garage is a barely visible snowy bulge, since nobody's ventured past the inner door, let along into their cars. It reminds Rahne of the stollen Kurt got in a gift package from his parents. He also got a packet of pumpernickel, and some funny little sugared biscuits called pfeffernüsse. They were kind of bitter when he handed them around, and she's sure she heard him mention before about how his mother makes them with rum. Or was it brandy? They'd been passed around before Logan's nose could find out.

Rahne shakes, wondering why clothing made from unstable molecules can't retain more heat. She's glad the Professor pulled enough strings to outfit her wardrobe in the stuff – no more shredded jeans, huzzah! - but there's something to be said for wool. She brought a sheepskin coat with her when she moved here, but ever since Kitty's soapbox rant about the barbarity of wool farming, she's been afraid to bring it out.

"I think," she says slowly, "I _would_ like to call it a day."

Jamie nods and stands up.

"After I've pummelled you for abusing my hat!" She leaps on him, wrestling him into the snow bank and producing three clones on contact. They try to wrench her off, of course, but they're all giggling too much to be effective. Besides, she knows the one she has is the original. In a snow war with Jamie, that's a rare occurrence.

"Hey, gerroff!" He flails ineffectually at her.

"Nevah!" She shoves his face into the snow. "I am supreme. I _am_ Spartacus. I _am_ – whoa!" She topples sideways, as one of the clones tugs the end of her scarf. She grabs instinctively for it, and the opening allows another clone to tackle her. Snow kicks up all around them, so that they look like a litter of puppies tearing up a toilet roll.

"You _are_ crushing my spleen," Jamie wheezes, spitting out hamster cheeks of cold, cold mush.

"Oh, like you even know where that is," Rahne replies, scrabbling about for her left glove. Her hat is skewed, covering one eye, and a ratty pigtail is sticking at right angles to her head. "Y'great numpty."

"Hey!" He raises a hand, mouth open to voice dissent, but stops. "I… have no idea what that means."

She giggles. She can't help it. A clone pops out of existence to her right, and it swells the noise in her throat, until it bursts forth in great barking gulps. It isn't an especially funny thing, but there's something ridiculous about sitting here, sodden and freezing in the snow, while the other X-Men are still abed. If she doesn't laugh about it, she's liable to notice the approaching frostbite in her fingers, which wouldn't do at all.

Jamie looks askance at her. "You're so weird."

She shrugs through her giggles. "I try."

Eventually, they get to their feet. The clones vanish. Rahne suspects one took her glove with him, because it's nowhere to be found. Jamie's scarf is lodged in the snow bank, and when he pulls it out it's covered in icy white bobbles.

They decide they need cocoa, possibly with marshmallows, and make their way back towards the mansion. Utilizing the mantra of ten thousand philosophers before them – the shortest distance between two things is a straight line – they cut through a small copse and head for the kitchen door.

Which proves to be a mistake.

"Incoming!" yells a voice, disproving Rahne's thought that a target has time to get away if you yell at them first.

The snow is cold and wet and thick. It's like a small avalanche falling from the sky, and for a moment Rahne and Jamie just stand there, wondering what the heck just happened. Her hat is gone again, buried somewhere in the debris, and piles of snow sit on their shoulders like an extremely bad case of dandruff.

"Got 'em!" says the voice.

They look up in time to see Kurt and Bobby high-fiving. Bobby, not possessed of such dexterous toes as Kurt, nearly falls off their branch, but catches another to steady himself. His grin wavers only a smidgen. Kurt hops up and down, showing off the specially knitted footwear from his gift package and crowing.

"How's the weather down there, kleine Leute? A little chilly?"

Rahne snorts snowflakes from her nose and cuts her eyes at Jamie. He's wearing that devious little smile that means he's thinking evil thoughts. She likes and mirrors it. People really don't give his evil little mind enough credit.

"Tag team?" she ventures.

"You read my thoughts."

The sight that greets the other X-Men when they finally come outside – that of an army of Jamies wielding snowballs and headed by a wolf, chasing and pelting an iced-up Bobby and Kurt across the grounds – is one that will live in infamy for the rest of this Winter. Especially when they're run to ground and Jean brings down her camera.

Revenge is a dish best served frozen.

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FINIS.

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End file.
